seeped into the thin weave of his black Under Armour shirt, the ruddy brown stain located at the hollow of his shoulder.
Moisture wicking, indeed.
Boone removed his chest holster of daggers with the doctor’s help, and then the nylon shirt was cut off. Okay . . . see? Not so bad. Just a little hole, the penetration about an inch and a half in length and thin as a pencil line. And due to him being properly fed, his body was already healing, the skin closing itself, reknitting, sealing the wound up.
“I told you,” Boone said.
When Dr. Manello didn’t reply, he looked at the human. The man was leaning back against the supply shelves and staring at Boone’s naked torso.
“What?” Boone asked. “It’s fine.”
“I agree, the wound isn’t that bad.”
“So with all due respect, what’s the problem?”
“Where’s your bulletproof vest, son?”
Boone’s mouth opened to answer that one—but he stopped the words before they came out. What he had been about to say was that his vest, the Kevlar one that, as a trainee, he was required to wear out in the field, was right over there with his leather jacket. His arm, on the side of him that wasn’t injured, was even raising so he could point, in a helpful way, over to where both it and that jacket of his were lying next to the small sink.
Except there was nothing over there that would stop a bullet.
In fact, he had forgotten part of his gear when he had gotten dressed at his house. And when he had attended roster call at the checkpoint, he’d had his jacket on, so neither he nor anyone else caught his mistake.
From out of nowhere, he heard the Brother Phury’s voice: Distraction during preparation is deadly.
“Listen,” Dr. Manello said, “I don’t want to be a buzzkill, or a snitch. But I can’t not report this.”
Boone was tempted to try and argue that it was “only once” and he would “never make this mistake again.” But giving airtime to that defensive edge he was suddenly sporting was just going to make him look like an unprofessional jackass.
Which, considering he’d forgotten a critical safety requirement? Well, he’d already captured the incompetent flag tonight, hadn’t he—thanks to wondering what the hell his father was up to at that party.
“We’ve got company, hold on.” Dr. Manello went to the rear door and waited. When a pound on the panels sounded out, he unlatched things and opened up. “Hello, boys. Welcome to my humble abode.”
Tilting forward, Boone looked out of the bay. Standing in the red glow of the RV’s rear lights, with hot exhaust billowing around them like fog on a Steven Seagal movie set, Tohrment, son of Hharm, and Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, were everything Boone wanted to be: Experts in fighting and straight-up killers when they had to be. The pair were also stand-up males who were loyal to their own and willing to sacrifice themselves for any who fought beside them.
Whether it was another Brother. Or a soldier. Or some idiot trainee who had made a mistake that could have cost him his life.
For a split second, Boone thought maybe they had been injured out in the field, too. But as they stared at him and him alone . . . he knew why they were here.
“Is he dead?” Boone heard himself say. “Is my father . . . dead.”
Tohrment stepped up into the mobile surgical unit, the vehicle’s suspension tilting to accommodate his formidable weight. That the Brother Vishous came inside with him made Boone want to throw up. Even the diamond-eyed warrior, best known for his ability to flay flesh from people using only words, was looking subdued.
The closing of that back panel was loud as a slam—or seemed that way. Boone was aware of his hearing sharpening to a painful degree, the rustling of sterile packages as the doctor got supplies out to clean the stab wound like gunshots in a canyon.
Tohr’s hand landed on Boone’s shoulder, heavy as an anvil. “I’m really sorry, son. Your father . . .”
Boone closed his eyes. He knew the Brother continued talking, but he couldn’t track the words.
“So I was right, wasn’t I?” he interrupted. When no one replied, he popped his lids and focused on Tohrment. “I was right, they were plotting against Wrath.”
The Brother applied a little pressure to his hold. “Why don’t you sit down here.”
“I thought I was?” Boone glanced at the floor and was surprised to find he was on